


Veneration

by Xachyn



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, set somewhere before Robert de Sable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 00:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xachyn/pseuds/Xachyn
Summary: “None of my business,” Malik echoed, before scoffing loudly. “At the end, who was it that had to hear from a hurried informant that the great Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad was getting cut down by a small company of guards? At the end, who was it that had to save this sorry, arrogant fool from an early meeting with Allah? None of my business, he says!”Malik threw the cleaning cloth on the ground beside Altaïr. It made a disgusting, wet, squelching sound as it hit the stone floor, water pooling underneath it.(Did Malik even know, this obscene power Altaïr had given to him and only him, so absolute and total it tethered on dangerous?)
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 3
Kudos: 169





	Veneration

Malik was resplendent, glorious and _golden_.

Was his second sight turned on? He’s not sure, too absorbed in the way Malik seemed to glow. Overhead, the afternoon sun blazed, a bright hue outlining Malik’s silhouette. As if time had stilled, Altaïr could trace every detail; the sheen of wetness across his face, his damp locks of curls clinging to his neck, the outline of his frame as his scimitar was slung over his right shoulder, gleaming in the sun. Malik looked around him, moving slowly to survey the scene while he stood tall above him. The neutral expression that adorned his face was betrayed by the rapid breaths of adrenaline coursing through him, their breathing almost seemingly in sync as Altaïr’s heart seemed to hurt, threatening to burst through to spill forth all of the complicated and messy weight that tore at him.

When Malik looked down at him, an unreadable expression graced his lips.

“Altaïr.” His voice was soft, distant.

Altaïr was confused. His head heavy, spinning, he closed his eyes, but despite the brightness that permeated his lids, he felt a slipping pull, a drag, lulling him into a darkness that engulfed him and he went with it, quietly and peacefully.

—

Altaïr woke up to the sound of birds and market chatter in the distance. He opened his eyes to sun-washed stone. Soft evening sunlight filtered through the vine-covered lattice above him, painting the space around him in a quiet pink hue. A small pot of incense burned beside him, its sparks flickering amidst ashes that danced in the gentle breeze. The smell of sandalwood and spice lingered in the air.

He was in the Jerusalem bureau.

“Awake?”

Altaïr glanced at the doorway into the front room. Malik stood there in his black robes, watching him coolly with a metal plate balanced in his hand. When Altaïr shifted, the dull ache on the back of his head pressed hard against him, and he felt a soreness that stretched across every limb. Malik kneeled down next to him, eyes cast on his abdomen.

“Do you remember what happened?” Malik’s voice was a quiet whisper.

Altaïr groaned, closing his eyes and trying to remember through the fog of pain that invaded his mind.

“I was in the Jewish Quarters,” Speaking hurt, a dryness grating against his throat as if he had swallowed a handful of sand, “The alarm. Lots of guards.” A bowl was lifted and pressed against his lips. When he parted them, the cool water that trickled into his mouth offered welcome relief, and he drank greedily, downing the rest within moments.

“You were overwhelmed,” Malik completed for him, “Fool novice as you were, imagining you could single-handedly take on the wrath of Jerusalem.” He got up, sweeping over Altaïr as he headed towards the fountain to refill the bowl in silence, only speaking after he’s offered water to Altair a second time. “And? I hardly recall sending you to the Jewish Quarter. What manner of business did you have there?”

“None of your business,” Altaïr asserted, but his voice came out soft and weak. A hand pressed against his stomach, and he looked down. Malik was unravelling the blood-stained bandages around his waist, his glare a stark contrast to the gentle hand he used to clean Altaïr’s wound. He hadn’t even realised the angry gash across his waist, already meticulously stitched. Was that the source of his pain?

“None of my business,” Malik echoed, before scoffing loudly. “At the end, who was it that had to hear from a hurried informant that the great Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad was getting cut down by a small company of guards? At the end, who was it that had to save this sorry, arrogant _fool _from an early meeting with Allah? None of my business, he says!”  
  
Malik threw the cleaning cloth on the ground beside Altaïr. It made a disgusting, wet, squelching sound as it hit the stone floor, water pooling underneath it.

There is silence between the two of them. Malik is kneeling beside him, so close that Altaïr can feel the heat coming from him, from both his body and his fury. Their robes barely touch, but Altaïr can hardly remember the last time they were so close. How long ago, even before Solomon’s Temple? As novices that knew little else about the world outside, of the depth that inadvertent hurt two people could bring each other?

“I’m sorry,” Altaïr said quietly. Malik still refused to look at him, and Altair watched as he fingered the end of a clean roll of bandages.

“What for?” Malik spat out, each word laced with bitter poison.

_Everything_, Altaïr wanted to say. He found no words that adequately encompassed all of it, all of the hurt that weighed in his chest, the guilt and the pain and clawing anguish that he knew dwelled inside of Malik as much as it did inside of him. He felt small, tiny, childish in a way only Malik could make him feel, could lord over him like royalty, a cold, callous king staring down from his throne.

(Did Malik even know, this obscene power Altaïr had given to him and only him, so absolute and total it tethered on dangerous?)

He watched, helpless, as the silence continued to stretch out before them, Malik leaning in again to redress his wounds. Malik is close, so close, that his scent of musk and spice and jasmine and old parchment and ink permeated all of his lungs with every inhale that he took, and somehow none of that was enough. Each graze of Malik’s hand against his stomach warm and electric as the roll of bandage is wound across his waist, the way their thighs leaned close to each other, their robes brushing in only the faintest of manner, none of that was enough. He traced the goosebumps on Malik’s exposed neck, the dip of his robes as it folded beneath, pressed against his skin, the curl of his dark hair, and Altaïr so desperately, so earnestly, wanted to run his fingers through it, to press his lips into Malik and close this cold distance between the two of them, so much that it hurt, the burn in his chest aching so much more than the ringing pain in his head or on his waist. It is insanity, his yearning, and it may one day be the death of him. They cannot possibly replicate what they had, once upon a time.

Malik stilled beneath him, and only then did he realise that he had a hand on Malik’s neck.

“_Novice_.” Malik’s tone dripped with warning. Altaïr’s breath caught in his throat.

“One of the Jewish merchants,” he said instead, slow, feeling each word carefully on his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to say it without feeling silly, so instead, he slipped his free hand into the brown pouch by his belt and carefully withdrew a book. It was a green leather-bound atlas, thick with maps of places that Altaïr had barely heard of. “I overheard you. Wishing for a map of Europe.”

Malik scoffed, lifting his face to finally meet him head-on. Altaïr hand curved, fingers still tangled in Malik’s hair. Malik, sullen-faced and bitter, his eyes shining and wet with sadness and anger, glowered at him, his fury with a passion so deep it was matched only by a god.

“So you stole it and put half the city’s guard on your tail. What is this, then? Your idea of penance?” He said, voice stilted, choking.

“No.” _Yes. All of this. Everything. All of me._

_“_You fool_.” _Malik grated out, always so sharp, always could tell Altaïr’s truths from his lies, and he’s so beautiful, so magnificent, and Altaïr felt like a boy of fifteen all over again, cowered, shy, hesitant, the two of them in that quiet watch-tower under the night sky with nothing but the stars as their witness, pressed close in quiet, careful veneration, so terrified of breaking the fragile veil that held them together. “You utter fool.”

“Yes.” Altaïr echoed his soft agreement.

“You could have died.”

“I did not expect to.”

“Would it have been worth it?” Malik snapped.

“Would it?” Altaïr asked, wanted to ask, _would it quell your hate for me, would it sate your burning, engulfing anger, would it wash away the sins and my mistakes and let us start over? _The pain in his chest blurred with that in his head, and everything ached, he didn’t know where each pain started and ended, except that he’s worn and exhausted and beaten. The sun had since set, the bright moon casting long dark shadows over the bureau’s garden. The noise outside had stilled, and it rather seemed as if they were the only two men left on earth.

Malik laughed, dry in tone and wet in sound, and offered no other answer except to lean his forehead against Altaïr’s.

“Idiot,” Malik scolded, but his tone had softened, and Altaïr leaned into him, both eager and hesitant, arms grabbing to wrap around Malik and holding on tight as if it were a dream, the cruel trick of a djinn, the rough linen of Malik’s robes crumpled beneath his fingers.

Malik’s skin is warm to the touch, and Altaïr buried his face in the crook of Malik’s neck to inhale deeply, ravenous and desperate to memorise the nuance of each smell, the texture of his skin, the way Malik shook and shivered in a way that was very much because of him and for him. The embrace dulled the pain, kept it away like a bad nightmare, soothed the hurt in him in a way no balm could, and his heart is light, lifted, turned skyward, and he wondered if Malik sought the same thing in him the way he did. Their touches were tender, hesitant, and it could be so much more, but for now, it’s enough, and it’s all he could ask for.

They stayed like that until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> "warm-up" drabble for nano turned into the 1.6k that I should have been writing for nano, but what can you do, yknow? I just miss these two idiots so much like urgh gimme my AC1 remaster already


End file.
